


How to Save a Life

by RowWithAChipNPin



Category: The Secret Saturdays
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Adoption, Angst, Beating, Broken Bones, Brooding, Brother Feels, Child Abuse, Cutting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Frenemies, Gen, Hospitalization, Mild Language, Near Death Experience, Near Future, Physical Abuse, Rescue, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, mostly AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-17 14:43:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RowWithAChipNPin/pseuds/RowWithAChipNPin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Secret Scientists invade the Organization to shut it down, they find something no one was expecting. In the Grayman Organization, failure is not an option.</p><p>With the Graymen on trial and Francis' life hanging in the balance, it's up to Zak to save him before it's too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Brooding

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Namorgasm on dA](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Namorgasm+on+dA).
  * Inspired by [The Only Hope For Me Is You](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/24134) by Namorgasm. 



> This story was inspired by Namorgasm's artwork on deviantART, especially 'The Only Hope For Me Is You.'

Zak fidgeted in his seat yet again; it had been over three hours since his parents and Doyle had left for the meeting with the Secret Scientists.

The air, cold and eerily still, smelled of antiseptic and death. The walls of the room were faded, streaked where they'd been cleaned with bleach; ditto on the floor. There was plenty of room to move about, but nowhere to get comfortable; but then, comfort wasn't needed. The chair he was sitting in was stiff and hard, the same way it had been for the past three and something-minutes. On the side table next to him, a tray of food sat ignored; the sandwich had gone stale long ago, about the same time the water got warm and the fruit dried. He hadn't even looked at it when a nurse brought it in; his stomach twisted at the thought of food. The room was well lit, but it didn't make a difference to him. Outside, it was a pleasant day, in stark contrast to the environment inside.

They'd found him two days ago—half-conscious, covered in dried blood, and unresponsive—when the Secret Scientists invaded the Organization's base. During the mostly-annual Summit, where every active (and a few retired) Secret Scientists gathered in one place for a conference, the Secret Scientists had gotten an anonymous tip that the Organization was working in human genetic mutation and engineering (both of which were strictly and explicitly outlawed by the United Nations, from which the Organization received its funding). They never would find out who sent it. Even though his parents (and, admittedly, every other S.S. who could get a word in edgewise) had flat-out told him to STAY THERE, he'd managed to stow away in the Saturday Airship supply closet and by the time they found him, it was too late to turn back.

As it turns out, it was a good thing he'd gone along. Zak had been the one to find Francis, and it was an image he would never forget; the memory of opening the door and finding a half-dead Francis would haunt him for the rest of his life, wake him up in the middle of the night.

The pale-as-death teen was lying on his side, eyes glazed and unfocused, and he was barely breathing. He was covered in blood, and looked like hell had run him over with a garbage truck. His eyes were half-opened—his pupils didn't dilate and he didn't blink when Zak waved his hand in front of his face or snapped his fingers—and they were glazed over. He didn't respond when Zak called his name or shook him. Zak dug his index and middle fingers into Francis's neck, searching franticly for a pulse; after a few terrifying, heart-stopping moments of _nothing,_ he felt it. Weak and shuddering, but he felt the pulse against his fingers.

Zak had started shouting for his parents, for Doyle, for _anyone_ to come and help. When they did, his mom did a quick, spur-of-the-moment examination, and declared that they had to get Francis to a hospital five minutes ago. Doyle scooped him up as carefully and gently as he could, but the movement jostled Francis's arm. The agent had gasped, eyes going wide and pupils shrinking to the size of pinpricks before rolling back in his head as he passed out. Doyle had taken him back to the airship and set him up in the infirmary, and Zak had sat watch in case the agent woke up for the ride back to the Headquarters in the Sahara Desert (or, rather, _under_ the Sahara Desert). Francis had stirred a few times, but never woken.

"…I don't know if you can hear me, but I have to say something," Zak said softly. His voice echoed in the quiet room, bouncing back at him off the walls.

The beeping of the heart monitor was his only response; Zak hadn't expected anything less. The doctors had told him that it could be awhile before Francis woke up, if he ever did.

He couldn't deny that the other teen looked terrible—almost as terrible as he felt. Zak stared at the tube running from Francis's nose to a machine, the IV in his right arm, the fifteen stitches in his side, the brace on his left wrist, and the bandages wrapped around his too-pale skin. Zak watched his chest rise, fall, and rise again, and wondered if it was really Francis breathing or just the machines giving him life.

The doctors had confirmed what Drew first said—five fractured ribs (two on the left, three on the right), a concussion, internal bleeding, a fractured collarbone, one nasty gash in his side that needed to be stitched up, a plethora of cuts, scrapes, and bruises, and his left wrist was fractured. He was also malnourished, as if he hadn't been eating properly for some time. It was a minor miracle that he was alive; the doctor said that he should have died from his beating.

"Whoever did this," the doctor had said, "wanted this young man dead very badly."

The IVs were delivering a nutrient and vitamin cocktail that would start replenishing those his body had lost, and though it would help with the pain, the doctors refused to give Francis any sedatives however minor for fear that he would _never_ wake up if they did.

A few times, the constant beeping had faltered, and each time, Zak had frozen on the spot, waiting for the crucial indication that Francis's heart was still beating to even out. Each time he was certain that it would cease, that the younger's body would give out and the agent (ex-agent?) would be lost forever into the abyss of Hades.

"Francis…if you can hear me in there, you need to know something. Epsilon, the other agents, the scientists—everyone in the Organization has been taken into custody. The United Nations is trying the entire Organization for crimes against humanity. If they lose the trial, they'll get life in prison. Epsilon will _never_ be able to hurt you ever again, okay? Ever."

Zak took a breath—a long, shuddering breath that caught in his throat—as he tried to calm himself. He didn't understand _why_ he was so worried about the other boy. There had never been anything more than animosity between them; they couldn't stand each other. The only similarities were that they were both kids growing up and living in the world of myths, cryptids, and secrets. Francis had been, Zak assumed, trained as an agent since he was born; Zak had grown up tagging along on missions with his parents. But…they _did_ have something else in common. Back in Istanbul, they had connected, Zak was sure of it; he'd felt it, the hatred bleeding away to be replaced with understanding and grudging respect. He wondered if Francis had felt it too.

Zak felt so helpless right then. He was a Saturday, and things always worked out for a Saturday, but he couldn't do a damn thing to save Francis. All he could do was sit around and wait. And pray. He'd done a lot of praying. He didn't know what deity he believed in, and he didn't really care as long as Francis pulled through. Over two days since the clone had been admitted and not a sign of recovery. Not a twitch, not a murmur, not a single smartass comment about Zak's personal hygiene. Nothing. Just the sounds from the machines and Zak's own muttering, and even that was starting to get annoying.

The sound of rustling cloth drew him out of his musings, and his head shot up. Yellow eyes looked at him blearily. Bleary and unfocused, but _open_.

"…Z-Zak?"


	2. Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Francis thinks about his future, and what hell the Graymen's actions will bring down on him.

_SMACK!_ Ouch. Apparently, he'd said something wrong. Or sinned. Or breathed. He stepped back involuntarily, fingers lifting to the stinging hand-shaped bruise on his face; that was going to hurt for a while. In truth, he knew why his father hit him sometimes; his father had a bad temper, and when things went badly, he could sometimes lose it a little.

It didn't help that he was a disappointment; he would never live up to a hundred years' worth of high expectations. He was highly trained in the use of long and close-range weapons and explosives, and was an expert in assassination techniques. He was an excellent hand-to-hand combatant, with intensive training in numerous armed and unarmed martial arts techniques. He could fluently speak English, French, Japanese, Spanish, and German. Due to harsh, constant training and genetic tinkering, many of his body's physical capabilities were heightened to the peak of human ability—strength, speed, agility, reflexes, durability, senses, and immune system. And yet…he would always fall far from their standards; he was inferior, below par, second-rate. He was a disappointment.

"Do you know what you're problem is, Francis? You _think._ We don't _think;_ we _do,_ we _follow orders._ We do not make the decisions, we only carry them out. That is what we were made to be!"

Pain resonated through his back; he could feel warm blood dripping down his back. It was a never-ending cycle of pain, criticism, and nasty words. His body was dragging up from the floor and slammed hard against the wall; his teeth clacked together and fireworks went off, both behind his eyes and in his skull.

"Don't you ever learn, boy? There is _nothing_ special about you; you are one out of a long line of serial clones! We are all the _same_ ; you are _nothing!"_ The words cut into him like a knife, slashing him deep. Epsilon let them sink in, his face impassive. The words rang in his ears, echoing: _you are nothing, you are nothing, you are_ nothing!

"Please…" The whimper came out barely audible, a single word passing his bloodied lips. The hits just kept on coming—punching, kicking, slapping, more punching, more kicking. He felt his ribs creak under the abuse; _SNAP!_ He winced as the rib broke, and a rebellious yelp escaped, earning him an extra hard slap across the face. Blood exploded in his mouth; he could feel the metallic liquid coat his tongue

Ruthless hands on his skin, holding him down and covering his mouth, holding back his screams and smothering him. Fists left blue and black bruises, sharp edges broke skin, every nerve was on fire. Ribs broke under merciless punches and kicks; harsh words echoed in his ears, repeating, getting louder until they drowned out everything else. He could feel it in his bones, in his very core.

_White._ That was the first thought when he woke up; the walls, ceiling, and floor were all white, and there was no furniture or decorations. The hard plasti-cuffs bit into his wrists angrily as he pulled experimentally, cutting into his skin and rubbing it raw. Hot tears welled up in his eyes, but he blinked them away with some effort; he refused to cry and let them see yet another failing. His injuries from the previous day were still throbbing; they hadn't bothered to give him painkillers or a sedative before they locked him up in the White Room. They wanted him to feel every agonizing moment of his punishment; they wanted to get the message across. And that message was that he was weak.

They were right, of course. He _was_ weak. He suffered from the agent's fatal flaw—listening to his emotions rather than orders. Emotions were for fools, weaklings, and suckers; they didn't factor in when one relied on only logic. He had faltered in his function as an agent when he let his infallible grip on his emotions slip and he'd lost control. He had revealed the Organization's greatest and deepest secret—that all of the operatives were clones of the perfect agent—to his target in a bout of resentment and anger. He had foolishly allowed Zak Saturday to goad him into a childish argument and has lost control of his temper and his emotions.

That was how they found him two days later—half-conscious, covered in dried blood, and starving—when the Secret Scientists invaded the Organization's base. Francis would learn later that the Secret Scientists had gotten an anonymous tip that the Organization was working in human genetic mutation and engineering; they would never find out who sent it. He didn't know who had found him, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Francis didn't remember much about what happened; he remembered a familiar voice calling his name, a hand shaking his shoulder, fingers on his neck checking his pulse, the blurry figure of a person he couldn't focus on. His head was pounding; he wished whoever it was would stop shaking him. He tried to say something, but his mouth wouldn't move and the words wouldn't come. He tried to move, but his body wouldn't respond; pain permeated every nerve and cell. There was more shouting, new voices joined the conversation, and suddenly he felt hands on him—hands larger than the first person's. Panic shot through him, and he would have struggled if his body would have worked. He felt himself being lifted, the movement jostling his bruised and broken body; a groan escaped, and his eyes fluttered shut. The last thing he remembered was someone was talking to him and a hand on his arm, and then the world went black.

**An Indeterminate Amount of Time Later...**

In the Secret Scientist headquarters infirmary, the clone knelt on the floor of the bathroom connected to the room. He didn't remember much about the trip, except that he'd spent it lying on a gurney in the Saturday Airship infirmary, drifting in and out of unconsciousness. His uniform was gone, replaced by grey scrubs that were a little too big on him, and Drew had bandaged up his injuries—for the first part—before they'd locked him up. O _n the plus side,_ he mused, _they haven't slapped handcuffs on me yet. I take that as a good sign._ The Secret Scientists were deciding his fate as he sat there; interestingly enough, he was doing the same. Depending on what they decided, either he would be sent to prison with the rest of the Organization or…he wasn't quite sure what the other option was but he was sure he wasn't going to like it.

He didn't see why they were bothering to pretend like there was a choice; they were going to ship him off to prison, he knew that. They considered him too dangerous to simply let him walk free and they would want to be able to keep an eye of him, but they would want to wash their hands of him as soon as possible; what better place to drop him? They might be debating whether to send him to a juvenile detention facility until he turned eighteen or just skip straight to the orange jumpsuit and life in prison, but other than that, his future was already set.

He shook his head, not so much to dissipate the blue fog as to clear his thoughts. _No._ He wouldn't let them dictate his future—he wouldn't let _anyone_ do that, not anymore—and he _was not_ going to jail; he would _not_ do well in jail. He was done letting other people treat him like a doormat; _he_ was taking control of _his_ life.

Starting with _ending_ it, hence the razor blade he was holding in his hand.


	3. Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Francis prepares to escape the worst case scenario, Zak arrives just in time, and a conversation is had.

Shaking, he dug the corner into his right forearm and dragged it across the tender flesh of his arm, wincing at the sudden pain. He watched, captivated, as crimson blood welled up from the cut and fell in rivulets down his arm, where it dripped down to stain his pants. Shuddering, he did it again, and then a third time, deeper than the first two. He ignored the pain, blocking it out as he focused in on one thought: _they won't control me anymore._

_"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?"_

His head whipped around to the open doorway (why didn't he close the damn thing?), where a stunned-looking Zak was standing. A moment later and Zak was at his side, slapped Francis's hand. Francis was still so completely stunned at having Zak Saturday walk in on his suicide attempt that he didn't resist when Zak knocked the razor with which he'd been planning to end his life out of his hand. He was even more stunned to see a visible hint of sheer _panic_ at what he'd been about to do lurking in chocolate eyes.

Before Francis could re-gather his senses and resist, Zak held the boy's wrists in an iron grip, his stare boring into the agent's yellow eyes fervently. Zak could feel the warm blood under his fingers, slick and staining his skin crimson. Francis winced and gasped in pain as Zak put pressure on the cuts. Zak reached out his other hand and gently lifted Francis's bowed head to look at him. The tears—tears that he'd held in throughout his beatings, throughout the shouting and training and pressure—finally spilled over, running down his cheeks, pooling on one side in Zak's hand.

"Don't you _ever_ do something like this again! Never! Do you understand!" Zak demanded, his voice rising with what sounded possibly like hysteria.

 

 

 

Zak's eyes, full of worry and terror, cut through the thick blue fog of depression, making Francis feel even worse. Silently he nodded, and he sat still while Zak grabbed the razor and flushed it down the toilet, and didn't move when the other teen searched him for a second one. Finally, satisfied that Francis wasn't going to start again, Zak gave him a long, stern look and told him to stay put. Francis nodded numbly and did as he was told, and soon Zak was back with a first-aid kit. Francis yelped as Zak dumped antiseptic into the cuts and wrapped his wrist in bandages.

Zak didn't look at him as he said, "Hurts, huh? Good. Maybe that'll stop you from doing it again."

Satisfied with his work, Zak pulled him up and dragged/led him over to the bed. The biracial teen pushed him down onto it before sitting down next to him, letting Francis go but keeping his hand within grabbing distance. They sat in silence—an angry silence on one half, scared on the other—until Francis finally got up the nerve to break it.

"They've decided, haven't they?" It wasn't really a question. Zak wouldn't be there unless the Secret Scientists had come to a resolution.

Zak nodded, not looking at the pale-skinned boy.

"Yeah."

Francis's chest tightened; this was it. His entire future rested on what the Secret Scientists had decided. He flinched when Zak put his hand on his arm; the news wasn't good.

"Well…there's good news and bad news. Which do you want first?"

Francis looked at Zak out of the corner of his eye. "The bad news," he said quietly, bracing himself.

Zak let out a long sigh. "The Secret Scientists want to toss you into a maximum-security prison cell, throw away the key, and leave you there for the rest of your life, same as with the rest of the agents. The Regents—those are the big guys, the head honchos of the Secret Scientists—think they have a pretty good argument, too. They were trying to decide between Alcatraz II, Guantanamo Bay, the Pit, and Serkadji Prison for a while."

Francis let his head drop back and he stared at the ceiling, trying not to scream. So, he's freed from one cage, only to be thrust into another, more permanent one. He bit his lip, trying not to dwell on the images that flashed through his mind. The four worst prisons under the jurisdiction of the United Nations; no one had ever been a prisoner in any of them and come out alive. The food was crap, the amenities were little to any, the guards were vicious and cruel, and it was any criminal or terrorist's worst nightmare to end up in one of those. He almost didn't notice when Zak started speaking again; how could there _possibly_ be an upside to this?

"The good news is my parents, Doyle, and Dr. Cheechou talked them out of it."

_Wait, what?_


	4. Saving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a decision is explained, a choice is given, and a life is in the balance.

Francis moved his head to stare at Zak so fast he nearly got whiplash. Zak's expression was difficult to decipher; his features had been carefully schooled into a mask of indifference, but his eyes told a much different story—there was a spark there, something Francis guessed to be excitement.

"What?" It took him a few seconds to process what the other boy had said. "Well, then what happens next?" Francis demanded.

Zak's body language turned pensive. "Well," he said carefully, "that's up to you. I mean, you can say no and then they'll have to find another solution—I think boarding school was mentioned at one point, and so was a monastery. Or you can agree; the decision is totally you choice."

Okay…now Francis was starting to worry. He watched as Zak pulled a piece of folded paper out of his pocket and held it out to him. Wincing, Francis took it and unfolded it. He stared at the official-looking sheet in disbelief, the words swimming across the page. He must be hallucinating or having a _really_ weird dream, or it was a prank. He doubted it was dream; the pain from the cuts was a nasty, throbbing reminder that he was in reality, aided and abetted by his aching body. He doubted even _Zak_ was this cruel, so it was likely _not_ a prank. That only left hallucinating, which, come to think of it, was entirely possible; the Secret Scientists could have put something in his food.

He looked up at Zak, not quite gaping, but his surprise and suspicion must have shown on his face, because Zak held up his hands and shook his head.

"Hey, don't look at me like that! It's real, I swear. Mom's idea, though Dad and Doyle backed her up. Dr. Cheechou thought it was a great idea, too," he said.

Francis sighed, looking back at the paper.

"And what about you? What do you think?" he asked quietly, almost afraid of the answer.

Zak was silent for a few moments before he said quietly, "I think it's a good idea too."

Francis nodded numbly and continued to stare at the paper. It was obviously just a quick scan, not the original or the official version, but the big, Gothic letters at the top made its purpose very clear:

**_CERTIFICATE OF ADOPTION_ **

The spaces for the adopters' names were already filled, by names Francis knew well: **_Solomon Saturday, Drew Saturday._** The space where he signed his name was blank.

Before Francis could say anything, Zak pressed on. "I mean, that's what you've always wanted, right? A family? This is your chance." He took a breath and continued, "The Secret Scientists want you out of the way, you know that, but Mom, Dad, and Doyle argued that it wasn't right—or fair—to put a kid in prison for something he had no control over. Some of the United Nations were starting to side with the side against you, so Mom found a compromise that wouldn't start a war. The way she put it was 'a fair attempt to integrate him into our side without permanently scarring him mentally.'"

Zak shrugged and grinned. "I think she said it that way just to piss off Beeman. It can be translated as 'save the poor kid from a fate worse than death while simultaneously pissing off both the Board of Directors from Hell and Epsilon, and giving him a real home.'" He shifted uncomfortably beside Francis.

"You know," he said after a while, "it _is_ your choice."

Francis nodded, still not looking at Zak. He was silent for a while before he finally said, "I'll think about it."

Zak nodded and stood up. "I told them you'd say that. The Regents said we have twenty-four hours until they discard this as an option, so you have until tomorrow at noon to decide. Take your time, okay?"

He turned and started to leave, but paused at the doorway and looked back, his face unreadable and his eyes hidden by his hair.

"I—Francis, you've got to believe me, I really do think this is a good idea." He looked up and his expression hardened until it was almost cruel. "Epsilon is a bastard who'll rot in a prison cell for the rest of his miserable life, but if it was my choice, I'd strap him into the electric chair and see how much electricity it takes to fry a bastard like him. He deserves it for what he did to you."

His face softened and he continued, " _You_ deserve better than that, Francis. You have a chance at having a real family—a mom and dad that care, an uncle with wicked cool stories,—" He smiled—"brothers and a sister—and a real home. You and I, we've had our differences, I know—you tried to kill me, several times, and I haven't exactly been Miss Manners either—but I'd be glad to have you as my brother. Just…think about it, okay?"

And with that, he stepped through the door and let it close behind him with a _click._ Francis was surprised when the mechanical lock didn't _whir_ into place; maybe they were trying to gain his trust, or they just didn't think he was much of a security risk.

He let himself fall back against the bed, wincing at the bolts of pain, and stared up at the ceiling. The adoption form was clutched in his left hand—hurt less in the broken wrist than the bleeding one—and a weight was heavy on his bandaged and bruised chest. As he let his eyes glaze over, seeing but not seeing, he thought about what Zak had said.

_A family?_

Was it possible, he wondered, for that to be true? If he signed the papers and agreed to the adoption, would he ever actually be accepted into the family, or would it be like back at the Organization, where he was always being watched, his every move observed and evaluated? Doc and Drew Saturday were Secret Scientists first, and their duty lay with the United Nations; if the UN wanted to keep him under observation to discover the secrets of the Organization, this would be a perfect strategy, would it not?

But…he had read their files, and he knew them inside and out. In his professional opinion, Doc and Drew Saturday did not have it in them to do something like that, especially to what they would consider a broken child who needed their help. _It's much more likely that they are entirely sincere in this,_ his logical side whispered, perhaps more influenced by his deepest desires—the desires for family, for safety, for some semblance of normalcy—that he would like to admit. He had once mocked Zak for being normal, for having the family he could never have. Yet, now he had the chance to have just that, and he was lying there, staring blankly up at a white ceiling and debating whether or not it was a trick?

He closed his eyes; they were starting to sting, and he'd stopped seeing long ago. He had to consider what would happen to him if it did, in fact, turn out badly. If the Saturdays _did_ turn on him, if it _was_ an elaborate set-up playing on his secret wishes, and things blew up in his face, he had to ask himself—could he survive that? Could he survive another betrayal, especially one so horrifically cruel?

He remained this way—laying on a bed that wasn't exactly comfortable but wasn't too bad, pondering the pros and cons of this life changing decision—for what must have been hours, because eventually, when he turned his head, he noticed a tray of food on the table that hadn't been there when Zak left. He vaguely remembered someone coming in—perhaps a half-hour ago, maybe more. They must have left that tray for him; he also had the hazy memory of someone brushing the chunk of hair that fell in his eyes back behind his ear, but he wasn't sure who. When he brought a hand up to rub his eyes, he realized he was still holding the paper, crumbled into a ball in his fist, and that somehow, during that time, the bandages around his wrist had been changed without his noticing.

The smell infiltrated his nose, and his stomach growled audibly; he couldn't remember the last time he ate. He thought it was back in the infirmary, after he'd woken up, disoriented and confused, with Zak at his side, but he couldn't be sure. He sat up and, careful not to irritate any injuries, got to his feet. The room swayed for a moment before righting itself again, and he walked warily over to the table. The food looked good, though he supposed that at this point anything would look appetizing—a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, chips, a slice of watermelon, and an unopened can of Pepsi. The bread was a little hard under his fingers, as if it had been sitting out for some time, and the Pepsi was a bit warm, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

As he ate, his eyes drifted to the clock on the wall: 8:23 in the morning. He blinked, surprised. Somehow, without realizing it, he'd fallen asleep while he was thinking and slept through the night. His groggy brain was trying to process why that was important when reality hit him like a ton of bricks:

_It's today! Today at noon, everything changes._


	5. Musing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the author chickened out of the shmoopy family scene and did this instead.

Humming cheerfully despite the weather, Zak shifted the boxes in his arms so he could unlock the apartment door. It was pouring cats and dogs outside, and even though it was only a couple blocks from Pizza Verde—the whole-in-the-wall pizza joint run by an old man who was blind as a bat, had more hair in his ears and nose than on his head, and lived off his Social Security checks—to his apartment, he was soaked through. His hair was plastered to his face, his shirt stuck to his chest, and his arm ached—they were in for a long, cold storm.  
  
After a moment of fiddling with the key, there was a _click_ and he pushed open the door; after he’d stepped inside, he closed it behind him with his foot.  
  
“I’m home,” he called out. He received no response; the only sound in the apartment was his locking the door and the faint sound of the fan turning in lazy circles above his head. He walked over and set the pizza boxes on the counter, then started down the hallway toward the bedrooms, shrugging off his backpack on the way. It hit the discolored carpet with a muffled _thud_ , and his keys clanged together noisily when he tossed them onto the coffee table carelessly. The apartment wasn’t some posh retreat—two bedrooms, one bathroom, and furnished mostly with stuff bought from yard sales or taken off street corners—but it was in a part of the city that the police didn’t patrol regularly, and that was what really counted.  
  
He would admit, however, that he could see the appeal of a penthouse in a classy hotel, and if he’d _wanted_ to draw attention to himself, he would’ve gotten one without a second thought. But this neighborhood was colorful, and after he’d gone around and informed people with a shotgun strapped to his back and his gun in its holster (both in plain view), “Do not fuck with me, do not fuck with my apartment, do not fuck with my computer geek,” they’d settled in and made themselves comfortable.  
  
No one—not one person in his twenty-five (almost twenty-six) years—had ever accused him of being a neat person. Strange, crazy, reckless, a walkin’, talkin’ time bomb: yes, yes, yes, he’d been called those plenty of times, along with a lengthy list of other choice words. But, neat? Never, and there was a good reason for that. He didn’t particularly care where things were as long as he could locate them at a later date with a search time of under fifteen minutes, and he couldn’t see that changing in the foreseeable future. He wasn’t what someone would call an “organized” person, either.  
  
Francis, however, was the living embodiment of organization. He was the only reason the place was ever relatively clean. Since they both worked for the Manhattan branch of the Company (a subdivision of the Secret Scientists) and neither had girlfriends, so they’d pooled their money and rented this crappy apartment together. It was close enough to work that they could get there in less than ten minutes in an emergency, and close enough to the subway that they could walk to it in just a few.  
  
A quick search of the apartment and Zak found Francis conked out at his desk, head lying on an arm, eyeglasses dangling from his hand. Looking around his roommate’s bedroom, Zak rolled his eyes and smirked. It was meticulously tidy—bed made according to military standards, clothes organized by color and type, no dust on any surface, shoes lined up in a row. There was a place for everything and everything was in its place. His pens were in one container, pencils in another; his notebooks were in a row on his bookshelf; a cardboard box next to his desk was full of bits and pieces he could use in his inventions.  
  
Francis’s room was in stark contrast to his own bedroom, which perpetually looked like the tornado from _The Wizard of Oz_ had come tearing through, tossing pieces of popcorn, clothes, DVDs, video games, and books everywhere. It was a disaster zone, he knew that. If Francis’s bedroom was the epitome of cleanliness, Zak’s was the very definition of messy; if one were to look up the word “chaotic” in the dictionary, Zak was almost positive that one would find his picture next to it, probably in Technicolor with the words MOST WANTED across it in bold.  
  
Zak lingered in the doorway, trying to decide if he should wake his brother up so he could eat or let him sleep. He needed it, after all. After the terrorist attacks in San Francisco and Miami, their workload had doubled; even though the investigation wasn’t cryptid or technological related, it had seeped through the levels into their work life. Dr. Zak Saturday, age twenty-five, was the head of the Company’s cryptozoology department; Dr. Francis Saturday, twenty-four, was director of their R  & D sector.  
  
His brother looked so peaceful, sleeping at his desk, that he pulled at Zak’s heartstrings. His expression was relaxed, far from the guarded one he usually wore, and he looked almost vulnerable; Zak was reminded of that day in the Headquarters ten years ago, the day Francis became his brother.  
  
 **TEN YEARS AGO**  
  
Fifteen-year-old Zak pushed open the door to Francis’s holding cell, careful not to drop the tray he was carrying; somehow, he doubted Francis would like it if he dropped his food. Looking around, he almost didn’t see Francis; he had to take a double-take around the room before he spotted him on the bed. He was lying on his back as if he’d just lain down, but his eyes were closed and moving beneath his lids frantically; he was having a nightmare. Zak set the food down on the table and sat on the edge of the bed.  
  
It was hard to think that soon, they could be brothers. Zak hadn’t been lying when he’d spoken to Francis the day before; he had meant every word he’d said, serious as a heart attack. He hoped Epsilon burned in hell for all eternity for what he’d done to Francis; that bastard deserved nothing less than that. If Zak ever came face to face with the agent again, he couldn’t promise that he wouldn’t kill him himself. Francis deserved so much more than what that man had ever given him; he deserved to be happy.  
  
He deserved a family that would love him, and Zak knew that, if nothing else, the Saturdays were certainly a loving family. Hell, Doyle had been raised as a punk thug being thrown from foster home to foster home, and eventually turned criminal and mercenary working for Van Rook, and if Mom and Dad could accept him, then Francis would be an easy fit.  
  
He brushed a chunk of mint-green hair out of Francis’s face. He looked so young, so much younger than fourteen (an investigation into the Organization had revealed that Zak was actually older by a few months, and the other had yet to turn fifteen), and Zak knew then that he would always protect him—from Epsilon, from the Secret Scientists and Regents…even from his own personal demons.  
  
When Zak had seen Francis kneeling on the bathroom floor, dragging that accursed razor down his pale arm, his heart had broken a little bit. He knew that Francis had been depressed, but it hadn’t occurred to him that the other would go to such extremes as to kill himself. Before he knew it himself, Zak had been across the room knocking the damned thing out of his hand. His heart was racing, pounding out a tango against his ribs, and his blood was boiling. How could Francis even _consider_ doing something like this? Francis’s face was pale—paler than usual, anyway—and his eyes were wide, and full of pain and sadness.  
  
He grabbed his wrists, staring into golden eyes, eyes that would mark him forever as unique. And that’s what he was—unique. Not a freak, as one of the Secret Scientists had labeled him; not an experiment gone wrong, not a mistake, not something to be feared and locked away! He was unique, just like Zak with his two-toned hair, and neither of them should be penalized for that.  
  
He could feel the warm blood under his fingers, Francis’s lifeblood seeping away, slick and staining their skin crimson. He could feel the other teen’s pulse, beating like partridge wings, flighty and quick against his fingers. He tightened his grip reflexively, and watched as pain flashed across Francis’s face and then came back and camped there. Francis bowed his head, breaking the eye contact, and gasped, a quick and sharp intake of breath. Sympathy struck through him like a lightning bolt, and Zak tentatively reached out and cupped his chin, gently lifting his head to look in his eyes.  
  
Those golden eyes cut deep and raw into Zak’s heart, and he watched as the dams broke and the tears spilled over, running down his pale cheeks like liquid diamonds. The sight broke his heart even more, and Zak had the sudden urge to pull him close and hold him tight, and protect him from his pain. He wanted to chase away Francis’s personal demons and make him feel safe.  
  
 **PRESENT**  
  
A sound pulled Zak out of his memories and back into the present. As he watched, Francis yawned and sat up, his joints popping as he straightened out; he must have been sleeping in that position for some time. He shook his head and slipped his glasses on, then turned and looked at Zak.  
  
“When did you get back?” he asked, confused.  
  
Zak shrugged. “A few minutes ago, not long. I brought pizza,” he added, motioning with his head towards the kitchen.  
  
Francis nodded, as if this made sense, and stood up, stretching. They’d both changed so much, both physically and personality-wise, and usually when they introduced themselves as brothers, their claim was met with skepticism and doubt, though not without reason. They looked almost nothing alike, and if one wanted to see the similarities, they had to look beneath the surface and the bickering.  
  
Zak had grown out his hair, the basis of much teasing among Wadi, Ulraj, and Francis, and kept it back in a ponytail that fell well past his shoulders. Tall as his father and lean, he’d matured well and was quite handsome according to Wadi and the gay AV guy down the hall, and was the subject of many admiring eyes both in and out of the workplace. His left arm had been damaged beyond saving, between his shoulder and elbow seven years ago, when he was eighteen; it had been replaced with a cybernetic prosthetic designed by his dad and uncle, and unless he removed his gloves or pushed up his sleeves while wearing a T-shirt, no one noticed, including himself. His personality was the same as ever until someone looked beneath the playful glint in his eyes and saw the sadness and pain lurking in the chocolate depths.  
  
Francis was slender and pale as death—two things that hadn’t changed over the years—and his hair wasn’t quite as long as Zak’s, but it was long enough that he had to constantly push it back behind his ears; Zak relentlessly teased him about needing a haircut, to which Francis would respond by brutally yanking on Zak’s ponytail. When he was fifteen, he’d gotten glasses to correct his nearsightedness; it was a good thing the Company had good insurance, because between their experiments, missions, crazy antics, and his own inability to keep them out of stepping range, Zak had no clue how many pairs had been broken. Despite his near-obsession with rules and order, he blatantly ignored the Company’s dress code by wearing ratty jeans and band T-shirts under his pristine white lab coat; he’d been threatened before by the Administrators, but he was too valuable an asset—they couldn’t touch him.  
  
They were like two sides of the same coin, complete opposites that complemented each other in such a way that they couldn’t dream about being apart. On paper, their arrangement was a disaster. Francis was serious and got his work done fast, so he had time to harass his brother; Zak lazy and put things off for as long as possible, and he liked to goof off and joke around. Francis was quiet and somber, and the only time Zak was quiet was when he was asleep or pouting (usually because of something Francis did or said). Uptight, relaxed; grumpy, optimistic; responsible, reckless. But both could be obnoxious beyond belief, and they needed each other.  
  
“Good,” he said, brushing past his brother and making a beeline for the kitchen, “I’m starving.”  
  
Zak followed, thinking.  
  
It had been ten years, almost to the day, since they’d become family, and Zak had spent every day keeping the promise he’d made to himself. Whether it was comforting him after a nightmare, watching his back during a fight, or punching out the lights of bad guys with him, Zak had _always_ watched out for Francis. When they did a stint in public school in small-town Crossroads, Alabama to hide from a particularly persistent villain, Zak had broken the arm of some imbecilic junior who’d had the guts to lock the skinny pale computer geek in a locker for six hours. Zak had been suspended for two weeks for his troubles and his parents had chewed him out, but it had been worth it for the look on Francis’s face when he’d opened the door.  
  
For better or for worse, they’d stuck together, and it had saved their asses on more than one occasion. That time in the mad scientist’s lair, when they‘d started a fire in the janitor’s closet; they’d been running for their lives with a wave of concussive force and flames at their heels, and if they hadn’t been together, they would have died for sure. Of course, Wadi very nearly killed them herself when she found out what they’d done; honestly, they weren’t fifteen anymore, and it really was rather a lot of paperwork for her to fill out every time they destroyed something, and she wasn’t going to save their butts from Internal Affairs forever.  
  
Zak watched as his little brother—because there was no doubt, no matter what anyone else said, that Francis was his little brother—picked up two pieces of Hawaiian pizza and dropped them on a cheap plastic plate. The movement pushed his shirt sleeve up his arm, revealing the three long, raised, shiny white lines on the inside of his right wrist, barely visible against his already-pale skin. The scars were the last remnants of the desperate suicide attempt from ten years ago; the attempt that Zak had foiled just in time. As the scars had faded, so had the memories, though they, like the marks on his skin, would always remain.  
  
When Zak had first introduced Francis to Wadi and Ulraj, he hadn’t been sure what to expect. It had been a few months since Francis had come to live with them, and though he wasn’t flinching when people touched his shoulder or his arm anyone, he was still jumpy and wary of just about everyone. Wadi took to the pale ex-agent right away, and Francis had seemed to like her. Despite a particularly prickly start, Ulraj had warmed soon enough. The four of them were still friends, all these years later, and they met up at least once a month to catch up.  
  
Wadi, who was now a stunning young woman who knew she was beautiful and used it to her advantage, was stationed in the Middle East as a translator in the Peace Corps, as part of an exchange program with the Secret Scientists and the U.S. government. Ulraj, after he’d turned eighteen, had discovered that he could no longer skip out on his duties as king just to hang out with friends, and thus spent most of his time in Kumari Kandam.  
  
Zak got his own pizza—meat lover's, of course—and grabbed two cans of soda. They headed out to the living room and plopped down on their couch. The couch was ugly and lumpy, and the most awful plaid, but they’d gotten it cheap and it was comfortable, and even though either one of them could afford to buy a nicer, newer, leather couch to replace it, neither of them could bear to get rid of it. The TV—52-inch, hi-def, flatscreen, plasma “man-ivision,” as Wadi had put it—that hung on the wall was one of the few things they’d allowed themselves to indulge in.  
  
They popped in a DVD into the player and sat back, ready to spend a Saturday night on the couch, trading jokes, imitating the characters badly, and throwing popcorn at each other.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh! And, I don't own TSS, any of the characters, or what was inspired by Namorgasm.


End file.
